the mom in me bows to the mom in you

Tag Archives: family

Emily is in first grade now and the mean girl club has started with a vengeance. This has been a seriously rude awakening for both of us. For whatever lucky ducky reasons, my son (who is four years older and five grades ahead of Em), did not go through social crap in the same toxic, manipulative ways my seven year old daughter is already navigating with her peers.

Emily is a sensitive and empathic child, which makes the whole issue all the more heartbreaking. I’ve addressed it with parents, her teacher, and the principal and we’ve come up with some supportive ways to help Em cope with the stress of being a sweet little lamb in a lion’s den.

This week she went back to school after the holiday recess, and happily applied herself to her studies. She loves to read and is thrilled by participating in art. This morning, as I was in the bathroom getting ready for work, she approached me.

“Mama, when you go up to dress, can we have a talk?”

“Of course. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just need to do some talking about my feelings.” She said with a serious little face.

So, here’s another difference between Em and Jack. Both of them have the same goopy, social worker mom, but my son rarely willingly divulges his emotional space to me. Em on the other hand is all about the deep, emotional bonding.

As I pulled myself into my undies and leggings I asked her what was up. She disclosed to me that after school, when she was playing in the school yard, under the watchful eye of her babysitter, one kid had stolen her hat off her head and her special new toy, and run off with them, and threw them over a fence.

She told me this calmly and clearly as if recounting the forensics of a crime scene.

My heart sped up and it was all I could do to keep the steam inside my head. I hugged her. Her glossy curls brushed against my cheek and I felt the little bones of her back under my hands. We talked about how it made her feel and how she solved the problem and what she thought we should do next.

Then she wanted to play on the iPad.

She moved on, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.

I was pissed.

Had it been an isolated incident, maybe I could have let it go a little easier, but dude, I’ve been dealing with this social crap for the past four months now and I don’t understand why it isn’t getting any easier. It also seemed to suck and confound me because the bully this time had been an older boy.

So, at pickup, I approached the kid’s mom and mentioned to her that her son (who is four years older than my first grader) had been physically aggressive to my daughter. I let her know that Em is just super sensitive right now and I’m trying to keep tabs on things, and I knew her kid probably didn’t mean to hurt her hat, toy, body, or feelings, but that was the end result. I told her directly, but politely.

She told me it was inappropriate to mention it in front of her son and that she would talk to him and get back to me…….

Here’s what I REALLY wanted to say, “Heya bitch face, tell your poorly socialized excuse for a spawn to keep his grimy paws off my precious little baby and while you’re at it, maybe you want to have a convo with him about consent and how to treat women because clearly you are training him to be an abusive little shit! Boys will be boys after all!”

I didn’t tell her that at all. I smiled and thanked her for her time and then I went and privately had an anxiety attack that I had confronted this woman who was clearly pissed with me and didn’t have a grasp on where I was coming from.

TBH, I’m pretty much still shaking, even after texting and talking to several friends who validated that I was advocating for my daughter and did the right thing.

It is hard to address these issues with other moms. I appreciate that. Furthermore, I get that the other mom was also advocating for and protecting her son, but oh man, in this day and age, maybe we all wanna double down on those discussions with our sons about respecting the physical space of female bodies and set some good examples for future generations.

IDK. It got me thinking about all the things I sorta wanna say as a mom, but don’t.

Smile and nod. Smile and nod. . .

When does my politeness become complicit? When do I actually enable the abuse of my daughter on the playground by saying what is polite instead of saying what I really mean and feel?

Hubs had tried twice to unclog the vacuum. Unsuccessfully. He and Jack had gone out to get planting supplies for our flower garden and the stupid vacuum was sitting in the middle of the filthy living room rug.

The damn thing had been clogged for like a month and every time I tried to vacuum, it spit out more dust than it picked up. I’d once again implored the Hubs to take a peek at it, but he hadn’t gotten around to it.

Long story short, I took the thing apart, with the cheerful support of my six year old daughter, and plucked out a huge wedge of dust and fur along with a broken clothes pin that had been horizontally blocking the hole. It took me a couple tries to put the thing back together, but I got it set straight and was happily sucking up a month’s worth of decrepitude.

Hubs and Jack got home and I proudly announced that I’d fixed the vacuum.

“How’d you do that?” Hubs asked incredulously.

“I exerted my domestic goddess nature on it,” I smiled.

“Mama,” Jack chimed in. “Did you yell at it?”

“No, Punk,” I said, mildly annoyed by the smirks on the three other faces of my family. “I did not yell at the vacuum. Why would you even say that?”

“Well, you are really good at yelling,” Jack laughed.

“Very funny,” I said and dragged the vacuum upstairs to do the master bedroom.

It was actually pretty funny. Jack’s timing was totally on point and we were all able to have a chuckle at my expense. I don’t know if I would categorize myself as a yeller. I do raise my voice on occasion, out of frustration, and truth be told I am not the world’s most patient person.

But it is always interesting to get a little glimpse of how my kids see me as a human. And of course they do not see that for the one time I yell, there are about 47 other times where I take a deep breath and remind myself to go slow.

At any rate, I’m pretty sure the time that Mama (did not) yell(ed) at the vacuum to make it work again will go down in my family’s mythology.

I’m contemplating that it really had been just a great week. I was happy. I felt genuine, uncomplicated, happiness.

Both of the kids had been relaxed and pleasant. There was a random, late-winter snow storm and we all got stuck at home. But instead of contracting cabin fever, we lounged blissfully in our jammies, snuggled, and watched TV. I even snoozed. We baked muffins. We ate muffins. It was a day of cozy comfort.

Then Jack found out a piece of his art had been chosen to be in the district art show. It was a totally unexpected accomplishment, and we were absolutely thrilled to celebrate it with him. He was proud and humble as he reluctantly posed in front of his drawing at the local library where the exhibit was held.

The very next day, Emily picked up a book and started reading it to me. She is having a pretty great year in kindergarten, and all of a sudden, a switch has been turned on in her brain and all she wants to do is read. She tenaciously sounded out words and struggled through page after page of Dr. Seuss as I cheered her on.

It felt almost too good to be true.

Things almost never go this smoothly.

We were getting out of the house in the morning in one piece without any drama, on time, and with cheerful attitudes. The kids were not bickering with each other as much. I made a French Toast Bake that Jack (my super picky eater) declared was so good it should be on a cooking show. Emily slept through each night without coming up to our bed and waking us up. They said “thank you” for random things that they normally overlook as crap that I just do on the daily because I’m their mom.

Part of me was tempted to break into song and dance, because surely this sort of delightful existence only happened in musicals.

Honestly, I just felt like I was nailing it. I was totally rocking the working mom gig. I wasn’t even doing anything different or extraordinary.

I didn’t post about it on any social media for fear of seeming braggy, although I did put up pictures of Jack’s art and a video of Emily reading. But the larger, greater sense of the motherhood machine running just right- I did not post about that.

It isn’t often that I feel this way; like all is well, and all will be well.

Much more often I am beating myself up for letting the kids watch too much TV, not serving as much veggie as I should, and forgetting to check if Emily has remembered to change her underpants.

I so easily fill with self loathing because I lack energy to force my kids to write thank you notes. I convince myself I am a failure because my kids’ rooms are pits of despair and I’d rather not deal with them.

And then there are all the times I wonder what the hell I am doing wrong when I can’t seem to get places on time, or when I burn dinner, or when I forget to sign a field trip permission slip.

Even worse are the times when Jack is having a sensory meltdown because his anxiety has gotten the best of him and I am completely helpless to assist him in regulating his emotional state. Or when Emily is annoyed and frustrated and she tells me she hates me.

This stuff is so hard. I had no clue that the hard stuff would be so hard, nor that by contrast, that the amazing stuff would be so amazing.

I also had no clue that motherhood would frequently and chronically consist of so much more of the hard stuff.

It’s important to acknowledge and remember what it feels like to nail it in this gig. It’s good to write it all down so when times are tough we can remind ourselves what it feels like to know and hold happiness, to do it right. It’s important to remember that we are doing so, so great, even when we think we aren’t, or when we feel like we are struggling to even put milk in our coffee.

There are good moments if we look for them. We create them, like we create life, like we create last-minute, haphazard recipes from the last four random things in our fridge at the end of the week. It doesn’t have to be anything earth shattering. There can be joy.

And that’s the other important thing to remember in this parenting game: that there will be joy again. Even when it feels like the rough patch is going to go on forever, there is still a potential for change.

When was your last parenting sweet spot? How did you nail it as a mom? Are you going through a rough patch now? Talk to me in the comments!

A friend recently remarked that she was super impressed with how much fun, enriching stuff I do with my kids. She mentioned seeing a group of photos I’d posted on social media of an outing my daughter and I took to a local farm, where we pet a lamb.

It had been an enchanting excursion. I won’t deny it. We were by the ocean and the scenery was lush and pastoral. Emily chased after chickens and we walked up to a fence to look at a bull with gigantic horns that looked like something out of a story book.

Then we got into the car to go home and Emily told me I was the worst mom in the world and she hated me because I wasn’t taking her to a restaurant for lunch.

So, I thanked my friend for her compliment of my pictures. And then I let her know Emily’s five-year-old opinion of me.

Sure I could have taken the compliment and allowed my ego to be stroked. But I happen to believe reality is important.

I also let my friend know that every photo of us doing something energetic and interesting represents a minuscule slice of our actual existence.

For every five minutes we are out doing something exotic, there are about three hours spent lolling around the house watching television, having tantrums, bickering, eye rolling, and sighing. Heavily.

I also do not incorporate photos of my never-ending laundry, toilet scrubbing, and refereeing sibling rivalry on social media. No one does. We all post the highlight reels. We post the pics that say “Look at me winning this impossible quest!”

We perpetuate our own mythology along with the collective mythology of modern day parenting.

It’s what we all do. Sorrynotsorry. No regrets. Because we are all on this seemingly never-ending struggle bus ride fraught with constant motion sickness and punctuated with momentary glimpses of something lovely out the window.

We all do it, but we all forget that we do it. That’s the problem. And that’s what leads us to compare with one another and feel like everyone else is out there having a better time. All the other moms are out there momming better, harder, and faster than we are.

Summertime seems to highlight this dynamic. At least it does for me. There seems to be this unspoken expectation that we are all going to be shiny, happy summer people, and that in addition to all the normal mom duties, we are also going to bring it in the areas of crafts, activities, and day trips to exotic ports of call like we are a deranged cruise director. Oh, and shit, I forgot about incorporating baking and sensory play. Gotta do it all.

I’m here to tell you, you do not have to do it all. I’m here to tell you, it is perfectly okay if this flurry of activity is not a realistic expectation for you. If you are tired, frustrated, or out of good ideas– it is all okay. If you just don’t feel like going outside today, also okay. Stay on the couch. Put in some Disney or Doctor Who. It’s all good. We all eventually get to the same place.

I personally don’t have the time or energy for being super creative mom of the year.

Of course it is important to do things with our children. In no way do I espouse neglect or unlimited screen time. Balance is key. Exercise is important. Hugs count. But…..

We do not need to be in constant motion and contact with our kids.

Kids need a break too. I’ll speak for me and mine. As a children of working parents, my kids have really long days– as long or longer than mine sometimes. Emily can usually be flexible and roll with the flow, but Jack needs a lot more down time. This makes it even trickier to balance their needs with my own. Societal demands, pressures, and expectations have no place in this equation for me.

It’s really hard not to let the social media highlight reels feed into the mythology of what summer and parenting is “supposed to be”. A lot of people I know have gotten off of social media for just that reason.

I’m learning to enjoy the posts of other parents without feeling threatened or pressured to do and be more, more, more. Because really, we are all already doing more than enough.

It has been a few since I posted. Days? Weeks? Months? Who know? I lost track.

I guess the typical myriad of reasons is to blame. Life is busy. I’m a mom. I work. You can only post so many times about the frustrations of your messy house and kids’ behavior in the summer before you start to hate the sound of your own voice. Blah, blah, blah.

There was something else. . .

My last post was about depression and frustration with life as a mom trying to balance work and parenting and the ongoing grief of losing a close friend. I was responding to one of the WordPress daily prompts, and I allowed myself to get pretty far out with my metaphors. I do that sometimes. It’s part of my process as a writer, and it also helps me deal with my feelings.

Cuz you guys, I have a lot of feelings.

Like, all the feelings. All of them. And lots of all of the feelings.

It’s just how I live. And it’s why I write.

Anyhoo, a very well-meaning reader commented that she felt bad for my kids because I was so depressed and maybe it was hard for them. She went on to make a bunch of heart felt suggestions about maybe I should join a group or try feeling better, etc.

I get where she was coming from, and I genuinely appreciated her kindness and concern.

But there was another part of me that felt incredibly vulnerable and frightened. Like, do people think I’m crazy? Do people think I’m a bad mom? Am I a bad mom? Am I screwing up my kids?

For a few hours I contemplated taking the post down, hiding it in the stack of posts that feel too raw, real, and close to share with the general public.

But then I pulled the brake on the run away mine cart in twisty recesses of my brain.

No. I’m not a bad mom.

And my kids are fine.

My kids don’t see me as depressed or damaged or screwed up. My kids see me as a human with human emotions. My kids see me as a person with big feels who channels those feels into poetry and art and silliness around the house.

Life isn’t always rainbows and unicorns, and I do not think we should pretend it is for our children. That is not reality and it doesn’t prepare or teach kids for what they need to deal with the complexities of the world in which we live, or their own emotional landscapes.

This is not to say that children who live with caretakers with severe and persistent mental health issues don’t suffer profound consequences if the adult does not seek help. That situation is no joke, and I am not writing to minimize it. But that situation is not me or mine.

I’ve cried in front of my kids. I’ve yelled and screamed in front of my kids. I’ve slammed a door once or twice. I admit I’m not perfect. But I’ve also taken loads of deep breaths. I’ve talked about my feelings. I’ve taken space and counted to ten. I’ve modeled healthy coping skills for them right along with being my own human self.

Am I screwing up my kids? Yes. Of course I am. We all screw up our kids in one way or another. And if you think you don’t, then you are living among the rainbows and unicorns and more power to you.

So I left the post up, because here is the other thing:

As moms with mental health issues and needs, we absolutely have to have safe and open space to address these topics. For me, my blog is my space. I’ve had decades of therapy and it has helped. I know the things and the skills. At this point in my life, writing is the way I process and what I need to do to take care of myself.

Feeling judged and crazy because we are anxious or depressed is a huge barrier for women in admitting and addressing their needs for support and treatment. Too long have we been told we are hysterical and maligned for simply feeling the pressure of this impossible life.

And oh my goodness, it really is impossible. Being a mom, let alone a working mom, is the hardest thing I can imagine. Add into that the facets of anxiety or depression and you have something so real.

So, despite my fear and vulnerability, I left the post up. I’m no heroine, but if my words resonated with even one other mom, then I feel like it was worth it to put myself out there.

Look. If you had a cold or a toothache, it would be excruciating to deal with life, to work, to mom, to cook and clean and do all the things you have to do to be responsible. But would you feel ashamed to say, “Whoa, it’s really difficult to mom and adult today because of this cold?” Probably not.

I don’t really think it should be any different with anxiety and depression. Our feelings can get big and become sort of like emotional toothaches. That isn’t something to feel shame about.

But I did. And I do. And part of me still wants to take that post down so that you’ll all think I have my shit together and that I’m a super great mom and that I’m doing okay.

Truth is, I am a super great mom and I’m doing okay. And my kids are okay. No need to worry about my kids. We are all going to make it.

What are your thoughts? What are your struggles? I’d love to hear from you!

Do you remember those “Chose Your Own Adventure” books from when we were in fourth or fifth grade?

They were these young reader books where you’d get to the end of a chapter and if you wanted to take the character to a cave to fight a dragon it would tell you to flip to a certain page, and if you wanted the character to get in a boat and sail off someplace, you’d be instructed to go to a different page.

As I got in the shower, and reflected on Mother’s Day, I thought how motherhood is sort of like a Chose Your Own Adventure book.

I thought this because I thought “Mother’s Day; what a fucking crock of shit.”

And then the guilty little people pleaser in me poked me in the ribs and said meekly, “But you should be so grateful! It really wasn’t all bad! Why don’t you just chose to think it was nice?”

It’s true. Overall it was a nice day. I felt loved and cared for, managed to please my own mother and my mother in law (nailed it!), and had good laughs among family. My children made me gifts and delighted me by creating beautiful cards for their grandmothers.

I got sweet, supportive texts from dear friends. I felt recognized by my husband who pulled out all the stops with four bottles of incredible wine, flowers, and a balloon. A balloon you guys! I got a freaking balloon!! I mean, how does life get any better than that?

If you want your character to chose gratitude and happiness, and to enjoy and be thankful for what she has, please turn to page 42 where she lives happily after.

Learning to chose the way you think about things is an important step in recovery from anxiety and depression. I know this as both a mental health professional, and as someone who has experienced anxiety and depression. When we are able to recognize our negative thoughts and rework them into something more positive and helpful, it often creates a more positive and helpful feeling space in us.

And when we feel better, we behave better. We get along better with our spouses and friends. We have more energy for negotiating with the little people in our lives.

So, as I lathered my hair with amazing-smelling coconut shampoo, I tried out some different thoughts about Mother’s Day and I wondered why my initial impulse was to be so negative about it.

Why am I always so negative anyway? I must really suck at life. I’m probably going to be rejected by all my friends and family because I’m such a Debbie Downer. Why can’t I ever just be joyful and super positive about stuff? What the hell is wrong with me? Oh. My. Gee.

It’s cuz I’m depressed you guys. That’s why.

I have been for a while. I’ve been ignoring it and working around the super high anxiety that makes me feel like I’m crawling out of my skin one moment and paralyzed with fear the next. I’ve been isolating and only talking to a few people in my life. I’ve had minimal energy to be with friends and family.

I’ve written almost nothing in the past few months because I’ve had so little energy and almost no joy.

Some of it, I suppose, is chemical- my genetic lot in life.

A lot of it is situational.

Work has been super stressful for me. I’m burnt out and experiencing a fairly intense compassion fatigue which doesn’t leave me with much of an empathy cushion for family or social life.

My son’s behavioral issues have been amped up lately and this creates exhaustion and a keen sense of failure as a parent which plays into my depression like a lyrical melody.

I’m also preparing for my daughter to graduate from preschool. While this is a joyful and exciting time and we are so proud, it also brings into focus a new era for which I am simply not feeling prepared.

Then there is preparing for the summer. As a working mom, arranging all the moving parts of summer camps, transportation, child care, etc. is hugely nerve wracking for me. Not to mention a drain on our finances.

Oh, also my mentally ill brother has gone missing again which never fails to throw my family into emotional upheaval.

I’m not sleeping well, so I’m perpetually tired. My body hurts. About 67% of the time I’m too stressed to eat so my blood sugar is wonky and I’m grouchy.

And because I’m already feeling emotionally fragile, every other little thing that goes wrong sets me off like a firecracker.

It’s hard for me to admit this. I actually hate the sound of my own voice in my head as I peck it all out into this post.

It’s hard for me to admit my negative thoughts about Mother’s Day when I should just be fucking grateful.

But you guys, it’s all so hard. It’s all just so fucking hard.

No one ever told me it would be this hard. Or maybe they did. . . maybe somewhere in my memory there is a shadowy recollection of my own mother’s bedraggled face dragging herself in at the end of a working day and trying to get dinner on the table. Maybe she did try and tell me. But let’s be honest, even if someone had told me, I would not have believed them, because if any of us believed such a thing we would never procreate. Our species depends on the very suspension of that disbelief.

I guess what I am trying to say is that it is all well and good to chose your thoughts and mood and destiny. It’s great. I respect it.

But sometimes the adventures of motherhood chose us and flip us into a cave where it is dark and dank and unpleasant. When you’re sitting there face to face with the dragon of your depression and your heart is thumping away at a resting rate of 150 beats per minute, it is really hard to have a cohesive thought, let alone a positive one of your own choosing.

If your character looks up at the dragon and says, “Hey there, guy. What’s up?” go to page 74 where you will work on acknowledging the shit out of your self worth even on your shittiest day and then eat a taco.

Yeah. This isn’t my character’s first trip to the cave. So I know the least helpful (albeit most tempting) thing to do is to put myself down for being depressed.

I also know that probably the first thing I need to do is look up at that dopey dragon and acknowledge he’s there, lurking and looming like he wants to devour me. He’s scared of eye contact and he gets a little smaller every time I call him by his name.

It’s all hard, guys, and sometimes holidays can highlight what feels like flaws and make things seem really raw and painful. Part of healing starts with choosing to make room for all those feelings rather than shaming myself for feeling them.

There is nothing like a holiday, and co-occuring school vacation, that validates my ineptitude- not just at motherhood but at this entire thing called life.

If you’re going to get all judgey-wudgey with me and tell me to shift my perspective and appreciate the precious moments, please stop reading and go away now, for the love of all that is holy. I. Can’t. Even. I intend to rant a little. Or a lot.

I’m exhausted from this time of rest and relaxation, and I go back to work to a week of back to back clients with whom I have to play catch up, and hear about all of their holiday woes and really valid trauma reactions to stuff. To be completely honest, I’ve been anxious about going back to work since about a week before my vacation even started, which kinda’ harshes the holiday buzz. So, if you’d humor me, I’ll take a couple minutes to talk about MY feelings about the holidays, motherhood, and my consummate failure as a human being.

First of all, the house is a disaster zone. I know, I know. I’m not supposed to worry about the state of the house, but I do. My children have eight grandparents because my family is crazy and blended several times over. I’ll give you a second to let that sink in. EIGHT grandparents.

Now imagine the influx of stuff they get from said eight grands. You there? Good. Now imagine all that stuff dumped and scattered throughout your entire small home.

Footnote: You can’t ask them to *not* get stuff for the kids because that engenders all kinds of offense and hurt feelings. Been there, done that.

I have crates and bins and dividers and shelves and all of the home goods crap that is supposed to make life neat and organized. You know what? None of it does a bit of good. I wander the house picking up toys and clothes and dishes, and as soon as I put away one thing, ten other things appear in its place. The mess makes my anxiety flare and spin inside of me like a Hawaiian fire dancer.

Some people, like my darling husband, have an impressively high threshold for chaos, disorganization, and clutter.

I don’t.

After ten years of marriage, he sort of understands that when I get like this, he should not take it personally, maybe clear the kids out of the way for a little bit, and bring home a bottle of wine.

He hasn’t seemed to figure out that firing up the vacuum or organizing anything within his reach would go a long way toward deescalating my fervor. That is, he doesn’t get it until I’m screaming and crying about it. . . because that’s the point it gets to. Not all the time, but once in a while and more often during the holidays than I would like to admit. It makes me feel really ashamed, then depressed I can’t get it the fuck together.

Then, there are the children. My sweet, happy, playful children who become maniacal, aggressive, and very loud lunatics when their schedule is upended. Rather, I should say my nine year old Jack has this low threshold for change, is easily overstimulated, and sets off my typically placid five year old, Emily. Jack has meltdowns that escalate really fast and involve a lot of sensory seeking in the form of yelling, pushing, and crying.

If you know me, or can relate to any of this whatsoever, you know my first thought: I created this monster and it is my fault he is unhappy because he inherited my anxiety and depression and it is just a matter of time until I’m being judged by another therapist just like myself and my kid has to go on medication because I’m a complete failure as a mom and have no idea how to parent my kid. It’s science.

And yes, I know that sentence needed some punctuation, but that is how my mind works.

Part of the stress for me, and probably also for my kids, is that with such a big and blended family, there are a shit ton of family parties, get togethers, and visits to be made. In a perfect world I would really enjoy seeing all of these people hither and yonder and would feel awesome about reconnecting and celebrating with them.

Truthfully, I do enjoy it, but it’s also stressful, draining, and unnerving. It seems like more proof I’m a complete asshat of a person. While I enjoy seeing people, it also makes me feel guilty that I haven’t seen more of them, that I haven’t made more of an effort of helping my children get to know them. It is more fuel for anxiety and self depreciation.

And while I know I might be a bit harsh on myself, it also seems there’s a lot of evidence I suck at life.

I DO realize it’s not all bad. And trust me, I’m grateful, despite how this post is making me sound (more proof?). We had some truly happy moments over the break. We laughed. I actually napped a few times! My husband got me everything on my holiday wish list and the kids were delighted and occupied with their gifts. I adore my family, and they fill to overflowing with love, which I believe is the most important thing in life. We have it all.

So what is it about the times of loud chaos that so upends my joy?

It’s a rhetorical question, folks. I don’t actually have an answer, which sometimes I’m okay with, and other times cranks up the hurdy gurdy of nerves and makes me want to run away with the circus. But let’s face it, I’m terrified of horses and clowns. Like actually phobic of them. So, the circus is probably not a viable option.

There’s no escape.

There’s really only embracing the uncomfortable, nervy sadness and frustration along with the sense of being completely bowled over by living. It’s tough to get my arms around, and it wiggles while I try to hold it.

Look, I could tie this post up by refocusing on a tender moment and telling you it’s all good in the end. I really could do that, and I could probably mean it. But it seems like that would be disingenuous. It doesn’t seem like it would be totally helpful to ignore the tough times when they really feel so weighted, because if I ignore them, they might subtly start to pull me down, hold me under the surface.

I also feel it’s important to acknowledge “the most wonderful time of the year” is really freaking difficult for a lot of us out here. The commercials and songs tell us we are supposed to feel and act a very specific way during the holidays, and these unrealistic images and expectations create tremendous cognitive dissonance for those who can’t understand why we don’t “get it.”

Sometimes stuff is just hard and heavy to hold onto. I have to believe that’s okay and it doesn’t make me a bad person; at least not all the time.